


Hearth

by havenwolds



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Comfort, Connor has Zen garden trauma, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Snowed In, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 07:26:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17402582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havenwolds/pseuds/havenwolds
Summary: A blizzard sweeps through Detroit. Connor does not have fond memories of snow, but Hank helps him through it.





	Hearth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BIGHANK (piano_fire)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/piano_fire/gifts).



> CW: Doesn't use the terms "PTSD" or "anxiety attack", but that's what's happening. It's mostly soft and a lot of gentle non-sexual touching though.

“Can’t believe the weather forecasters were fuckin’ right about something for once,” Hank mutters, peeking out the window at the howling wind and snow.

It’s been snowing all day, but now that the sun is setting the storm is really picking up — a blizzard, the forecasters said, liable to linger into Saturday afternoon and leave more than 15 inches of snow on the ground, one of the worst snowfalls in Detroit history. Hank did, thankfully, take the weather report seriously enough to stock up on food and supplies to last a few days; they aren’t likely to be leaving the house this weekend, barring an emergency call from work.

Connor stands in the kitchen, intending to start preparing dinner, but instead of looking through the refrigerator or turning on the stove, he hovers on the other side of the room, away from the windows. A strong gust of wind rattles the panes of glass in their frames and Connor trembles, folding his arms tightly across his body.

_The sound of the wind raging in the garden is so loud in his ears that he can barely make out Amanda’s voice. The snow whips into his face, stinging— why can he feel it? Why is he **cold**?_

“…nor.” Hank’s voice seems to swim out of somewhere underwater, Connor almost belatedly realizing Hank is talking to him. A broad hand lands on his shoulder and he jumps. “Connor, hey. What’s wrong?”

Connor jerks his head just slightly in Hank’s direction. He wants to move but his body won’t seem to obey. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Bullshit, you’re fine. Your thing’s red and you haven’t moved for five minutes.”

The weight of Hank’s hand on his shoulder grounds him a bit, enough for him to gather himself and explain, “…I don’t like the snow.” His voice comes out tremulous and he immediately hates it.

Hank’s eyebrows knit and his lips part, his _what are you talking about_ face. “Connor, it’s Detroit in winter, you see snow all the time.”

“Not like this.”

_The cold sweeps through his body, bitter and cruel, a sensation like — pain? — biting at him from his scalp to his toes. He relies on his scanner to make his way toward Amanda. Her figure is visible fitfully through the curtains of snow, whiting out even his vision. It feels like being… erased._

The hand on his shoulder grips him solidly and gives him a small, reassuring shake. “Well, can’t imagine it’s helping to stand here like this in the kitchen. Come on and sit down, I’ll put on some music. It’ll drown out the wind.” 

Connor casts a glance back at the kitchen as Hank steers him into the living room. The golden light from the lamps is immediately more comforting than the cold fluorescents in the kitchen. “I was going to make dinner…”

“Don’t worry about dinner, I know how to make a sandwich,” Hank counters, sliding one of the jazz albums he knows Connor likes out of its sleeve. He places the record on the turntable and lowers the tonearm, and Billie Holiday’s voice crackles to life.

Some of the tension goes out of Connor’s folded arms, and he manages a small smile when Hank turns back his way. His partner extends a hand. “Dance with me?”

Connor allows himself to be pulled against Hank’s body, finally unlocking his hunched shoulders so that he can clasp one of Hank’s hands and slide his other around the back of Hank’s neck, twining his hair around his fingers.

“Better?” Hank murmurs into Connor’s ear.

“Mm.”

They sway together to the music, Hank’s body tall and solid against Connor’s. It’s not like the garden, Connor thinks, lowering his chin to Hank’s shoulder. The garden is gone, and Hank is here, and Hank wouldn’t let anything happen to him.

Hank is humming along to the music, a pleasant vibration in his chest. The hand that isn’t intertwined with Connor’s rests on the small of Connor’s back. He leans down and kisses Connor's face, his temple, the soft nook behind his earlobe.

Hank's lips graze up the column of Connor’s neck, and Connor has almost forgotten about the storm, and then the power goes out.

“Motherfucker,” Hank curses in the sudden silence. He pulls away from Connor and Connor immediately misses the contact. The cold ( _why is he cold?_ ) begins to seep back into his chassis.

In the time it takes Hank to disappear down the hallway and return with a flashlight, Connor is shivering and his teeth are chattering. Hank takes one look at him and rushes to his side, setting the flashlight on the coffee table and taking Connor’s face in both hands. “Connor, jesus christ. What’s happening? Can you give me a diagnostic, something?”

“I’m f-fine, Hank,” Connor stammers. He raises his hands to his face to cover Hank’s.

“Will you stop fucking lying to me?” Hank’s tone is sharp. His blood pressure and heart rate are raised. Signs of stress. “What’s going on with you?”

Connor doesn’t know. He just knows that he’s afraid. He says the first thing that comes to mind. “The house is going to get cold.”

Another one of those knit-brows expressions. “Maybe, but not for hours, Connor. And you can’t even feel cold, can you?” When Connor doesn’t respond, Hank gives his head a tiny shake. “ _Can_ you?”

“I… d-don’t know. I’m experiencing… something like it?” Connor does not have a frame of reference for what cold feels like for humans. But he understands it academically and what he’s experiencing does seem to fit. He’s not just cold, he’s freezing from the inside. “It seems to be a reaction to an unpleasant memory.”

Hank’s muscles relax a bit. His eyes remain fixed on Connor’s, but they soften. _Analysis complete: Target’s facial expression suggests concern; empathy._ “You swear to me that’s what this is? You’re not malfunctioning?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Connor’s optical units sting — is he going to cry, on top of everything else tonight? “The dancing helped. Being close to you.”

A sturdy arm wraps around Connor’s waist and pulls him against Hank’s chest. “Okay. We can do that.” A few moments pass in that embrace and then Hank backs away, seeming as though he’s had an idea. “Give me a second.”

He only makes it a half-step away before Connor’s grip on his hand stops him short. “Please don’t leave me.”

Hank looks back at Connor and exhales through his nose, then squeezes his hand and gives him a smile. “All right, come on, then.”

Never letting go of his hand, Hank leads Connor into their bedroom and retrieves the heavy winter quilt from their bed. It’s a cozy-looking thing, a haphazard patchwork of different colors and fabrics, slightly faded with age. Hank hefts it over his shoulder to carry back to the living room, where he drops it on the couch and lowers Connor on top of it. He pulls the sides up to wrap around Connor’s shoulders; it’s thick enough that it half-covers Connor’s ears.

Connor starts to protest when Hank backs away, but the man leans down and places a kiss on his forehead. “I’m not going anywhere, baby, I’m just gonna start a fire.”

Connor watches Hank cross the room and kneel in front of the fireplace, opening the flue, turning on the gas, and clicking the starter. The fire bursts merrily to life, illuminating the room in a flickering red glow. Sumo finally emerges from his dog bed in the corner of the room to amble over and flop down in front of the hearth.

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Hank mutters to the dog. Satisfied with the fire, he returns to where Connor sits stiffly on the couch, clutching the hem of the quilt in his hands. “Scoot.”

The android allows Hank to position them, Hank laying down on the couch and then pulling Connor on top of him, tugging up the quilt to cover them both. They’ve just gotten mostly situated when the wind kicks up to a roar and some piece of debris hits the outside wall with a bang. Connor jumps and, reflexively, pulls the quilt over his head.

A deep, quiet laugh rumbles through Hank’s chest. Connor can feel the vague shape of Hank’s hand caress the back of his head through the thick blanket, and then the edge of the quilt is being lifted and Hank’s face appears. “Can I join you?”

“Yes,” Connor says softly. The quilt shifts over Hank’s head and Connor meets his eyes under their protective canopy. He’s relaxed enough again that he begins to feel ridiculous. “I’m sorry. I should be helping you.”

One of Hank’s hands comes to rest at the back of Connor’s head, his fingertips scritching lightly at his scalp and, oh, that always feels so good. Connor’s eyes flutter shut. “You don’t have to do every little thing yourself,” Hank says, his voice even deeper and more resonant than usual. “Let me take care of you for once.”

Again, the cold and the fear gradually recede. Connor rests a palm against Hank’s chest, over his heart, and allows his dermal layer to ripple away so that he can feel it more clearly. 72 beats per minute. Body temperature: 98.8 degrees Fahrenheit. Hank Anderson, 53 years old. Solid and warm beneath Connor’s body.

Connor is close to a doze, Hank’s fingers now entwining and tugging languidly at his hair. Sensing that the crisis has faded, Hank brings his other hand to rub between Connor’s shoulder blades. “So you wanna tell me what’s going on in that state-of-the-art brain of yours?” As if to emphasize his point, Hank’s fingertips drum lightly against the top of Connor’s head.

Connor considers, idly flexing his own fingers against the curve of Hank’s left pectoral. (A habit. “Like a cat making biscuits,” Hank calls it.) “Later,” he answers, finally, surprised by how tired his own voice sounds. “Please.”

Hank’s sigh makes Connor bob against his stomach. “All right. But I gotta pop my head out of here for a bit, some of us need some fresh air.”

“Will you keep talking?” Connor asks as Hank starts to lift the quilt away.

Hank pauses and looks down at Connor. “What do you want me to say?”

“Anything. I just want to hear your voice.”

One side of Hank’s mouth lifts in a small, lop-sided smile. “Yeah. Sure.”

He rearranges the quilt to drape back over Connor’s head, and his body twists slightly under Connor as he apparently turns and reaches an arm out to the coffee table. There’s some rustling and then Connor hears the dry flip of a paperback’s pages. The hand still under the quilt gently clasps the back of Connor’s neck, Hank’s thumb tracing back and forth along his nape. Then Hank clears his throat and starts to read.

_”Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun. Orbiting this at a distance of roughly ninety-two million miles…”_

Connor allows himself to drift, focusing only on Hank’s voice rising and falling as he narrates. He doesn’t quite fall asleep like that, but he gradually idles, letting Hank’s voice and warm hand on his neck hypnotize him into relaxation. Within Connor’s mind, the garden is inaccessible as it’s been since November, a severed connection. He’s beyond Amanda’s reach.

The next morning, the snow has settled into plush white drifts in the yard, and Connor and Hank are roused by the lights snapping back on and the turntable spinning back to life. They listen to Billie while Hank makes coffee and Connor makes pancakes, and they curl up together on the couch and Connor tells Hank about the Zen garden and Amanda and the emergency exit, and Hank listens intently. And then they exchange syrupy kisses, and Sumo joins them on the couch, and Connor gives Hank a lecture about falling asleep with the fireplace lit, and another day begins.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: the quilt is based off the one we see in [this concept art](https://detroit-become-human.fandom.com/wiki/Hank_Anderson%27s_Home?file=Hank%27s_House_inside_artwork_3.jpg), because it makes me sad that it didn't appear in the game.
> 
> You can follow me on Twitter at [@havenwolds](https://twitter.com/havenwolds).


End file.
